


Les Femmes Modernes

by Lishnyaya_Zhenshina



Category: Au Service de la France | A Very Secret Service
Genre: 1960s, F/F, Period-Typical Sexism, Spy Antics, c'est QFD, light misandry, moles, plum trees and the shaking thereof, the slowest of burns, underground lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-12-16 11:03:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11827404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lishnyaya_Zhenshina/pseuds/Lishnyaya_Zhenshina
Summary: After Merlaux disappears, Sophie goes looking for answers. As does Clayborn.





	1. Après le code Taupe

At first, Sophie thinks that André has gotten cold feet. Or maybe he is off in Algeria again, or in some other exotic locale that he forgot to mention he was visiting, and tomorrow she’ll walk into the café and there he’ll be with another stupid (delightful) little souvenir. 

She strokes the little camel on her nightstand. Or then again, maybe not. What sort of man proposes marriage (albeit by postcard) and then disappears without a trace?  

Her mother would tell her exactly what kind of man, but Sophie has made a habit of ignoring her mother lately. In the weeks since she last heard from André, her mother has gone from making plans for her future grandchildren to muttering under her breath about the inconstancy of man and the dangers of being a modern woman whenever Sophie passes through the kitchen. Sophie can’t really blame her.

Her father, on the other hand, has been remarkably unperturbed by his daughter’s heartbreak. Sophie even caught him whistling the other morning on his way out the door to the office. Oh, he had done his best to console her when it first became clear that André was not going to make good on his proposal, but his attitude as of late has been somewhat less than sympathetic. He clearly thinks that a month is more than enough time to spend “sulking about the house,” as Sophie overheard him telling her mother. But what does he know of heartbreak?

So Sophie continues her sulking, locking herself in her room and re-reading every note, every postcard that André had ever sent her. Admittedly, there are few, but this does not deter her. She analyzes and re-analyzes every moment they’d spent together, everything he’d said to her, looking for signs… of what?

The problem is, now that she looks back on it  _ everything _ seems like a sign. At first she’d just thought that he was scared of her father which, while silly, was understandable. To those who don’t know him, Maurice Mercaillon certainly seems like an intimidating man. And at first he hadn’t seemed to be too pleased with André either. But he’d come around, eventually. He’d told her himself how happy he was for her when she received André’s proposal, and she could tell by his eyes that he really was. So the thought that her father had somehow… intimidated Andre into leaving was patently absurd.

But even putting that aside, there were questions that remained unanswered.

For instance, when Sophie first begins to worry, when days turned into a week still without any news, she decides to go to André’s office and see if she can catch him there. She finds the address on his receipt from the tailor’s and tracks down the SOPITEC office, only to be told by a bored-looking receptionist that no one by the name of André Merlaux had ever been employed there. And. Well.

Sophie remembers that André had told her that he wasn’t a sales representative, his claim that he had lied to her, but she had just assumed that he was being dramatic, trying to make himself a little more mysterious and interesting. Not that he had needed to. But she’d found it endearing at the time, laughing to herself at the thought that sweet, awkward André could have deep dark secrets.

But now she is forced to reconsider. Could André have had secrets? When he had told her that she couldn’t love a man like him, she had set him straight. But as she lies in her room, staring at that stupid camel, she wonders. A man like what?

 

* * *

 

At 2:47pm precisely, Clayborn walks into the office. From behind her sunglasses she scans the room, out of habit more than anything. Secretaries typing away, Jacquard and Moulinier seemingly engrossed in what is, upon closer inspection, an upside-down newspaper. Moïse is nowhere to be seen, probably in his office. Satisfied, she removes her sunglasses and puts them back into their case with a snap. One of the secretaries jumps. She smiles.

Head held high, she approaches Marie-Jo’s desk. When she had first begun her career in the service, this had all been an act-- the posture, the aloof attitude-- her way of proving to herself and to everyone around her that she deserved to be there. But seven years later, she doesn’t need these tricks. She has seen the best that France has to offer and remains, frankly, unimpressed. 

She can feel the eyes on her as she walks up to Marie-Jo. One would think that secret agents would be better at covert observation.

“My expenses.” She drops an envelope on the desk and stifles the urge to give Marie-Jo a wink. She’d probably topple over from the shock. Though given Calot’s… Calot-ness, she should by now be able to withstand a few surprises. Still. Appearances must be maintained.

As she walks away from the desk she hears the whispers begin behind her, including a vehement “650,000 per tit!” and smirks. Find her a woman in France who wouldn’t expense her bras to the government if given half a chance.

She makes her way to Moïse’s office and knocks. At his response she walks in and sits down across the desk from him. He offers her a brief, tight smile before he returns to shuffling around his papers, looking for something, rubbing his forehead.

Moïse seems distracted lately, she’s noticed. Of all of them he’s taken Merlaux’s death particularly hard. It’s understandable, of course. Merlaux had been his protege, of sorts, and then to have him betray him, betray them all… an agent starts to wonder if he’s starting to slip.

But beyond this, something has been off about Moïse this past month. She wouldn’t be boasting in saying that Moïse had, well, if not liked her, respected her. And he’d long been one of the few people in the office that she could tolerate. They’d established a friendship of sorts, after that mess with Lechoit. The occasional lunch together, discussing old missions or the latest escapades. He’s one of the few men in the agency who has yet to try anything with her, and that alone would endear him to her. But she’s found that she genuinely enjoys his company, and had thought that he had enjoyed hers, which makes his recent reticence all the more confusing. No more lunches, no chit-chat-- he disappears at the end of every work day precisely on time, not even joining in with the merriment of the drinks cart on Fridays. He seems busier than ever, though goodness knows with what-- after the mole problem had been resolved, the pace of work in the office had slowed to its usual trickle. Something is off, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. Yet.

“Ah, yes, Clayborn.” He has apparently remembered her presence in his office. “Thank you for coming by. As you know, due to protocol 551F, after the death of an agent, we have precisely 45 days to find a replacement. Given that… the mole’s death came at a rather inopportune time for us as an agency, we have been having some difficulties filling this vacancy. Is there anyone you would like to put forth for consideration?”

Clayborn blinks. They must really be desperate-- this is the first time she’s been asked to weigh in on the acquisition of new agents. She thinks quickly, crossing off names in her head.

“I know a few girls who might be acceptable. Give me a day or two--”

“Ah.” Moïse coughs awkwardly, interrupting her. “I should have specified. We need a replacement for Merlaux, not another Mission C operative.” He smiles. “You understand.”

“Of course.” Mentally, she is kicking herself. Why mention their gender at all if she didn’t want to be shot down immediately? “In that case, I may still have a few leads. I’ll get in contact with them.”

He nods. “Very good. That’s all then.” He stands and crosses to the door, opening it for her.

Before she leaves, she pauses. “Moïse, if I may. I have a question for you. Regarding Merlaux.”

He visibly stiffens, but his voice remains calm. “Yes? It was my impression that that matter was settled.”

“It’s just… well, forgive a woman her sentimentality, but he had mentioned a girl that he was seeing. It sounded quite serious. I was wondering if anyone had thought to notify her--”  

“--No. No. You know the procedure.”

She did. And she knew going in that it would be pointless to ask. But, despite herself, she had liked Merlaux. Certainly he was not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but his naïveté had been charming, in its own way. And infinitely preferable to the arrogant boorishness of the other agents. Funny to think now that it had likely all been an act. But she imagined that this girl, whoever she was, would be missing him. And it seemed unfair to let her think that Merlaux had just walked out on her, abandoned her without a word. She deserved to know, at least, that he was dead.

Now, as to the circumstances surrounding his death, Clayborn is, for the time being, keeping her suspicions to herself. But during her years in the service, relying on her gut instinct has saved her life more times than she’d care to count. And her gut is telling her that something here does not add up. Something about the look in the Colonel’s eyes as he’d announced Merlaux’s death, about Moïse’s caginess after the fact... Well, she’d hardly be a good agent if she couldn’t sense when there was more to the story.

“Of course,” she replies. “Still, one feels bad for this poor girl. She deserves better than this.”

“I’m afraid it is impossible. Sophie-- this girl. She cannot ever know.”

And with that Moïse firmly ushers her out the door, shutting it behind her.

Standing in the hallway, Clayborn allows herself a small, genuine smile. “Sophie,” was it? Well, that was something she could work with.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayborn decompresses. Sophie goes to church.

It takes Clayborn longer than she’d like to track down Sophie Mercaillon. After her conversation with Moïse her workload had suddenly picked back up and she’d found herself off to Budapest, then to Beirut and Algiers, a dizzying swirl of hotel rooms, dimly-lit restaurants, and alleyways. By the time she lands back in Paris she wants nothing more than to get into her bathtub and not emerge for a week, and she has to wonder if that wasn’t Moïse’s plan all along.

The other agents can say what they want about her missions (and goodness knows, they do.) But she’d like to see Moulinier shoot a man in cold blood and then seduce his unwitting colleague with the body still stashed under the bed.

And keeping up this persona all the time takes its toll as well. She wouldn’t be in this line of work if she couldn’t make every man she encounters feel like the most fascinating, intelligent, attractive creature on God’s green earth, but Jesus, it is exhausting. She gives herself a small pat on the back every time she manages not to roll her eyes, sunglasses or no.

There is a reason her preferred speed is a saunter-- she’s determined that it is, among its other benefits, the most energy-efficient means of carrying herself.

Exhausted as she is, she still finds herself reaching for the phone mere minutes after finally arriving home. She’d long since discovered that there is only one way that she can truly decompress after missions, and Clara (among a number of young women of her acquaintance) is always happy to accommodate her.

“Of course,” the voice on the other end of the line purrs. “I’ll be right over.”  

By the time Clara arrives Clayborn has already drawn herself a bath and is lounging in the tub with a glass of wine. From the bath she can hear Clara letting herself in, locking the door behind her. 

“There’s an open bottle on the counter. Do help yourself,” she calls out from the bath.

“You began without me?” Clayborn can hear the affected pout in Clara’s voice and smiles.

“My dear, if you only knew the week I just had, you’d be impressed that this is my first bottle.” She sighs as she leans back in the tub, submerging her head and letting the outside world become briefly distant and muffled.

When she emerges she finds that Clara has not only poured herself a glass of wine, but has also taken the liberty of removing whatever clothing she arrived in. Clayborn smirks as she runs her eyes over the younger woman’s body.

“Now who’s the impatient one?”

“Oh shut up. You rather ruined my dress the last time I visited-- I’d rather not run that risk again,” Clara perches herself on a small side table at the edge of the bath, taking a sip of wine and preening slightly under Clayborn’s slow perusal, her dark hair curling slightly from the steam.  

“And as I recall, I more than made it up to you. Though if you would like to register a formal complaint... “ she trails off and raises an eyebrow. Clara grins and sets down her wine glass, leaning closer to the tub.

“Not all of us are as wedded to the insurance business as you are. Did you really invite me over to discuss work?”

“Decidedly not.” Clayborn closes the distance between them, leveraging herself up out of the bath far enough to kiss Clara’s smiling lips. She loves it when it can be simple like this: minimal lies, no faked attraction or arousal, no information to extract. Just…this. Lips on lips. A gentle scrape of teeth, the hint of a bite to a lower lip. No agenda beyond the obvious. She sighs, presses closer, deepens the kiss, and revels in the sensation as Clara’s hands come up to run through her hair before framing her face.

They continue like this, the steam from the bath rising up around them until Clara tugs firmly on Clayborn’s hair and Clayborn breaks the kiss with a gasp, the sensation sparking through her body. She begins to squirm, just slightly, pressing her legs together beneath the water as ripples form around her in the tub. Clara looks entirely too smug at this outcome, and Clayborn regrets for a minute letting the other woman know one of her weaknesses, however small. But then Clara pulls again and Clayborn lets her head roll back. A few chinks in the armor are worth it, she thinks.

She pulls back from Clara, panting slightly. She maintains eye contact as she lowers herself back down into the tub. Clara’s eyes darken, following Clayborn’s hands as they pull her hair up and away from the water and begin to lazily make their way down her body, one stopping to circle a nipple as the other continues down her stomach. Clayborn’s eyes close briefly as her fingers make their way between her legs, teasing around her lips with light touches, but open again when she hears Clara let out a shuddering breath. 

“Oh, you absolute tease,” Clara breathes, her eyes drinking in every moment of Clayborn’s hand beneath the water.

“You could join me,” Clayborn offers magnanimously. Clara’s lips quirk, and she picks up her glass.

“You and I both know very well that that tub is not big enough for two, despite your continued insistence otherwise,” she tells Clayborn as she stands. “Now, I am going to go make myself comfortable in that lovely large bed of yours, and if you are very nice about it, perhaps _you_ could join _me._ ” She gives Clayborn a stern look that is belied somewhat by the flush of arousal on her face.

“Now who’s the tease?” But Clara is already on her way out of the room. If life in the service has taught Clayborn anything it is that capitulation is sometimes necessary. And often enjoyable. So she takes one last second to luxuriate in the feel of the warm water before she grabs a towel off the rack and follows the wet footprints into the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Clayborn shocks everyone by arriving in the office promptly at 9 o’clock the next morning. Or she would have, had anyone else actually been in the office. The few secretaries who wander in at half-past are floored, to be sure. But the empty office means she can make her way to the records department unhindered, and without Moïse asking intrusive questions.

The man at the records department has a slight crush on her, so she only has to fill out forms in duplicate instead of triplicate in order to gain access. She makes sure to lean further down than is strictly necessary as she signs the last form, offering him the slightest hint of cleavage and he blushes to the roots of his hair. Men.

Three days later, she has determined that there are approximately thirty-seven Sophies of the relevant age living in Paris, and has been slowly making her way through each of their files, increasingly dispirited. Even if the girl _were_ linked romantically to Merlaux, that would hardly appear in her file. She is sorting the files based on the flimsiest of reasons-- this Sophie lives within four blocks of Merlaux’s home address, that one works at a patisserie not far from the office… She is about to resign herself to going door-to-door with a list of all of these damned Sophies when a name jumps out at her.   

Mercaillon, Sophie. _Mercaillon_. A coincidence, surely? But no, there on the birth certificate, “Father: Maurice Mercaillon.” She blinks.

Could Merlaux truly have been seeing the Colonel’s daughter? Even he couldn’t have been that devious, or that stupid. To infiltrate the service was one thing, but to infiltrate the Colonel’s very family… Suddenly, the Colonel’s ire after the funeral becomes all the more understandable. Merlaux must have been a much more formidable threat than any of them had expected.

Well, that solves that, Clayborn thinks. If this is indeed Merlaux’s Sophie, the Colonel has undoubtedly already informed her of his death, painful as that must have been, and Clayborn can walk away from this fool’s errand, putting this whole sorry mess behind her.

As she goes to return Sophie Mercaillon’s file to the shelf though, she suddenly recalls the urgency of Moïse’s parting words-- “she cannot ever know,” and stops in her tracks as new questions begin to form. If Moïse knows who this Sophie is, then he certainly knows that she is the Colonel’s daughter. So why had he been so insistent that she not be told of Merlaux’s death? It would be understandable that the Colonel not tell his daughter of Merlaux’s treachery, as that sort of knowledge was privy only to those with a certain level of security clearance, but to not inform his own daughter of the death of her boyfriend? She was right, she knows it. Something about this situation is off.

She returns Sophie Mercaillon’s file to the shelf, but not before making a note of the address listed.

 

* * *

 

Six weeks after André’s disappearance, Sophie receives a letter.

 In the first few weeks after she’d stopped hearing from André, she’d taken over Yvon’s mail collection duties in the mornings, the better to see if André had written. Now she collects it out of habit, the expectation of a letter dwindling with each passing week. So when she sees a letter addressed to her, her heart begins to pound in her chest. Could it be? She drops the rest of the mail to the floor in her haste to rip the letter open. Her stomach drops when she opens it to see not André’s precise handwriting but an unfamiliar, elegant script.

_Mlle. Mercaillon,_

_You do not know me, nor do I think you have much reason to trust a letter from a stranger. That being said, there is more to André Merlaux’s disappearance than you have been led to believe. You might consider talking to the priest who raised him-- he may have more information for you. Please keep this letter between us._

  _Yours sincerely,_

  _A friend_

 Sophie re-reads the letter twice, unable to believe her eyes.

 “Sophie, dear, what is taking so long?” her mother calls from the kitchen.

 “Nothing!” Sophie responds, shoving the letter into her pocket as she brings the rest of the mail in.

 Her mother scans her face. “Any news?” she asks in the too-careful tone of voice that she has started to use whenever the topic of André threatens to intrude.  

 “No.” Sophie hands her the other letters, amazed at how calm her voice sounds. “Nothing.”

She doesn’t know how, but she manages to sit through all of breakfast, though the letter feels as though it is burning a hole in her pocket. As soon as breakfast ends she sprints up to her room, ignoring her mother’s disapproving look. “Going to be late for work!” she calls down the stairs.

In the privacy of her room she takes the letter out again, sure that it could not possibly say what she thought it did. It’s too absurd. But there it is, laid out neatly on the page. What could it mean, “more than you’ve been led to believe?”

There was a sort of grim satisfaction in receiving this letter though, in knowing that despite whatever awful circumstances have befallen André he hadn’t abandoned her, as everyone else seemed to think.

Sophie glances at her watch-- she still has an hour before work, despite what she told her mother. Plenty of time to stop by the church and pay André’s father a visit. And begin to make sense of this letter.

 

* * *

 

When André had first gone missing, Sophie had in fact gone to the church several times, hoping to find him there. But she hadn’t been able to directly confront his father-- while she is very much a modern young woman, the thought of having to explain to a priest--a priest!-- that she’d slept with his son, he’d proposed marriage, and then promptly disappeared was more than she could bear at the time. And after a week or two of hanging around the church with no sign of André-- or of his father, for that matter--she’d found it too dispiriting to continue visiting and had stopped. 

But today she is returning with newfound determination. Priest or not, if the man knew something about André she would just have to get over her embarrassment and confront him. Marching up the stone steps, her determination falters slightly as she opens the large wooden door and enters the church, the smell of incense and the hushed voices reminding her of childhood visits to the church with her grandmother, the same strange mix of awe and guilt churning in her stomach.

Her eyes alight on two parishioners waiting for the confessional and she inwardly groans. This must be some form of divine punishment-- someone up there must know the guilt she’s tried to squish down these past months for not going to confession, even as she’d told herself that these archaic traditions were out of line with modern ways of thinking. She wouldn’t put it past her grandmother, may she rest in peace, to have somehow brought about this whole situation from beyond the grave, just to get Sophie back into the confessional booth.

But these thoughts are silly, and the fact of the matter is, if she wants to speak with the man in private, this is almost certainly her best option. So when the last of the other churchgoers have finished she girds her loins and enters the confessional booth.

“Bless me father for I have sinned--” Shit, that wasn’t how she’d intended to start, but force of habit had taken over.

“What is the matter, my child?” The priest’s voice floats out from behind the screen.  

“I…” Sophie catches herself, and then pushes forward. “Where is André?”

She hears a stifled gasp from the other side of the wall before the screen is shoved back and she is suddenly face-to-face with a very upset priest. Perhaps this was not her best idea.

“Who are you? Who sent you here? Is this your idea of some kind of joke?” Sophie had not expected the man to be so angry when confronted, but forges on ahead. 

“My name is Sophie. André is, well, he was my…” she trails off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. Can she call him her fiance if she’d never had the chance to officially accept his proposal? But to call him her boyfriend seems somehow frivolous. Fortunately, the priest saves her from having to finish this sentence.

“Sophie? André’s Sophie?” Well, at least that saves her from more uncomfortable explanation, she thinks. At least André hadn’t kept her a secret from his father. “But my dear, what on earth are you doing here?” 

“I was told-- I want--” again, she is unsure where to begin, but settles on the most direct approach. “Father, one month ago, André sent me a postcard asking me to marry him, but since then I have heard nothing more from him. I tried looking for him, I went to his office, but they claimed to have never heard of him. I had finally come to the conclusion that he had left me, but then yesterday I received a note that said I should talk to you, that you might be able to help me. Do you know where André is? Why he left? Is he… is he okay?” Despite her resolve not to, she begins to tear up. After a month without any answers, being so close to them is overwhelming.

The priest is silent for a moment, and when he does begin to speak, his voice is voice hoarse. “You mean no one told you?” Sophie looks up at him, and to her surprise there are tears in his eyes as well. “All this time and no one told you?”

She shakes her head, suddenly dreading the priest’s next sentence, and fervently, desperately wishing that the man will tell her anything other than what he is about to-- that André has fallen in love with someone else, has become a monk and taken a vow of silence, has hit his head and lost his memory… anything.

“Sophie, I am so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but André… André is dead.” And despite her premonition, nothing could have prepared her for this, for the finality of those words. Anger flares up in her, anger at the priest for sitting there and telling her this, and anger at whoever it was who sent her that damned letter. Couldn’t they have left her alone? To think he had abandoned her had been hard, yes, but it was vastly preferable to this. She realizes that the priest is looking at her and attempts to pull herself together.

“How?” is all she manages to ask before her voice fails her.

“I do not know the details. He was on an assignment in Algiers, and it seems he was attacked by some members of a terrorist organization there. They sent his body home last month…” the priest trails off and then they are both crying, separated by the walls of the confessional. Some time passes before either of them are able to speak again.

“Forgive me, Sophie, but I must ask-- how did you not know? I thought your father might have told--”

“My father?” Sophie interrupts him, nonplussed. “My father hardly knew André-- how would he have known?” And Sophie could swear that the priest looks momentarily guilty. 

“My mistake… I thought, perhaps, because of his connections, his work in Veterans’ affairs, that he might have been made aware. But apparently not. I’m sorry.” The priest looks uncomfortable now and Sophie feels a rush of pity for the man. He’s been mourning André all this time-- this can’t have been easy for him either. Perhaps out of discomfort, when he next addresses her his tone is much more businesslike.

“Unfortunately I have other parishioners to see to today. But if you can, come back later this afternoon. I can show you where… where he is buried.” Emotion creeps back into his voice and it hits her that this is it, this is final. While she’d been dreaming, worrying, crying, wondering, despairing, André had been here all along-- just down the street, but forever out of reach. She nods at the priest and bolts out of the confessional, to the bemusement of those waiting their turn. She can’t bring herself to care. She doesn’t stop running until she is out on the street in the morning sunlight, panting and crying and wondering where on earth she is supposed to go from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Femslash February- Chapter 2! Featuring my first attempt at writing anything remotely sexy. At this rate I estimate I will finish this fic sometime in mid-2023. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> It's an odd thing, writing a story for an audience of exactly one. I wish more people watched this show, but I also like having the free reign to do whatever I want with this fandom because there are no tropes yet. Mostly I just wanted to envision a world where this show passed the Bechdel test, and as a result I got queer ladies. Oops.


End file.
